


Harry Styles: The World’s Worst Dom

by musiclily88, sweet_disposition



Series: The Sexual Edification of Harry Styles [1]
Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Crack, BDSM, Clothing Kink, Consensual Kink, Crack, Crossdressing Kink, Dom Harry, Dom Liam, Dom Louis, Dom/sub, Dom/sub Play, Dom/sub Undertones, Fetish, Fetish Clothing, Fluff and Crack, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Mild Kink, Sex Club, Sub Harry, Sub Louis, Sub Zayn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-21
Updated: 2014-06-21
Packaged: 2018-02-05 13:46:25
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,588
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1820524
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/musiclily88/pseuds/musiclily88, https://archiveofourown.org/users/sweet_disposition/pseuds/sweet_disposition
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He stumbles into a job-searching-help forum, and his mouth goes dry at the very first post, entitled Gay For Pay. “Oh god,” he whispers, “what have I done?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Harry Styles: The World’s Worst Dom

**Author's Note:**

> Crack and a sex dungeon and flatmate love.
> 
> NOTE OUR LITERARY REFERENCES, FOR THERE ARE MANY
> 
> xx, musiclily

Harry is halfway through what he thinks is his tenth ramen meal of the week—truth is, he’s lost count—and his rent is due in five days and Niall is no longer looking quite so sympathetic at having to cover both portions. The point is, something’s gotta give. He opens up his battered MacBook Pro that’s covered in electrical tape and evidence of the very first beer he ever drank at age sixteen. That’s when he sinks to his lowest, even lower than the time he had flipped his socks and pants inside out because he had no money to wash them.

Harry’s not dumb, he’s not naïve, he’s heard the horror stories of other young, doe-eyed fools hard up for cash that wound up dead because someone on Craigslist was a little too aggressive and murder-y. But the fact is he’s run out of options and he’d rather take his chances with the possibly murder-y stranger rather than live on the street with actual murder-y strangers. He opens up his browser and googles “London how to make cash fast,” promising he’ll never, ever tell his mother how low he’s stooped. He gets millions of hits and assumes that a good 98% of them are scams, so he weeds through them to locate something real.

He stumbles into a job-searching-help forum, and his mouth goes dry at the very first post, entitled Gay For Pay. “Oh god,” he whispers, “what have I done?” The second post recommends hooking, which Harry knows is a guaranteed way to get knifed by a self-hating closet case hopped up on coke, so he dismisses that option. The third is for stripping, which he cringes because he’s seen enough episodes of Jeremy Kyle to know it’s not all glitter and thongs. He supposes he can go back to that if he doesn’t find anything better.

Going onto the next one, he sees it: a way to make money without taking his clothes off or having sex with anyone: being a dom. Plus he already owns leather pants and fuzzy handcuffs that Niall got him to try to embarrass him on his birthday.

After another cursory search, he catches his breath and dials the number for Grim’s Grotto to see if they have any “positions opening up soon,” trying not to make it sound like an innuendo (or in-your-endo, as Harry thinks to himself). He speaks to Mr. Grim himself, none other than Nicholas Grimshaw, a pleasant enough individual who just happens to own the largest dungeon in London.

He puts on his deepest, raspiest voice, trying to sound like sex-on-legs.

And that’s it. He has an interview.

***  
Harry doesn’t sleep at all the night before his interview. His mind is racing with images of floggers and sex swings and other things he didn’t know existed until plumbed the depths of the depraved internet. Sure, he has a few butt plugs and even two pairs of nipple clamps (for all four of his nipples, natch), but he’s pretty sure that no human being is supposed to be able to put his face inside his own arsehole.

He finally falls into a restless sleep only to awake with a start when the sound of his alarm interrupts his very vivid dream about being strapped to a fucking machine. He starts to get dressed, searching through his shirts and rolling his eyes at a defaced t-shirt with “SEX HOLE” emblazoned on the front in bright red sharpie, thanks to an enthusiastic Niall. He forgoes it in favour of tight black skinnies, a sheer button-up with only three buttons done in order to show off his trademark collarbones, and a clip-on cross earring he stole from his sister Gemma. Put together, he thinks he is quite the picture—quite the picture of a man at the end of his rope.

“This is what desperation looks like,” he says to himself in the mirror.

Through the open door, Niall retorts, “That’s the spirit, mate.” As he walks closer, he spies what Harry is wearing and adds, “Jaysus, what kind of job are you interviewing for? Are you playing the hooker-with-a-heart-of-gold game, because I gotta tell you, you’re winning.”

“Can’t tell you,” Harry says, cheeks flushing. “You’ll laugh.”

“Oh god, Haz, are you actually going to start hooking? Look, we’re not that hard up, I can always ask Greg if I can borrow money for your portion of the rent. Your arse is worth more than nine-hundred quid a month.”

“See, this is why I can’t tell you.”

“Okay, you don’t have to tell me, but this seems like shady shit. Text me every ten minutes so I know you haven’t been chopped to bits and tossed in the Thames.”

“Excuse me?”

“Trust me, it happens all the time. I should know, I watch a lot of Liam Neeson movies. Those are basically documentaries, mate.”

“It’s nothing dangerous, okay? Just embarrassing. That’s all. But I’ll text you when I get there and when I leave, if it’ll make you feel better.”

“Cheers. Nipple pinch for good luck?”

“Sure,” Harry says, rolling his eyes, letting Niall tweak all four of his nipples.

“But seriously come back alive,” he adds. “It would be the opposite of the craic if you died.” He plants a sloppy kiss on one cheek and waves him away.

***

Grim’s Grotto is surprisingly unassuming. It’s just another grey-stone façade away from the street, pavement lined with tees. Harry takes a deep breath and presses the buzzer and is promptly greeted by someone with a Northern accent who sounds slightly high. A buzzer sounds and Harry shoves his way into the building. 

He is greeted by the world’s prettiest man, wearing a pencil skirt, a white blouse, and just a touch of sophisticated lipstick. “Hi,” Harry drawls, quirking his head to one side. “I’m, uh, here for an interview?”

“Oh, hi, mate. I’m Zayn,” says the man—or, well, person, because Harry’s not the type to pigeonhole when it comes to gender—behind the desk. “What position are you applying for?”

“Uh, Dom,” he responds slowly, cheeks flushing.

“Oh, honey, they are gonna eat you alive.” Zayn throws their head back and laughs.

Harry pulls on his lower lip absently. “Have you worked here long?”

“Yeah. I’m a sub, have been working here for about a year now.”

“Oh. I thought you were the, well, receptionist.”

“Shit, mate,” Zayn responds with a laugh. “I just got done with a crossdressing scene and haven’t changed yet. I do like the breeze a bit, to be honest.”

“That—I can understand that.”

“The wig’s a bitch, though, it gets me really sweaty.” Zayn hefts a large ball of hair into Harry’s line of sight and then proceeds to remove the chicken cutlets from inside his blouse. “You’re a little early, can I get you anything?”

“I’m all right. Appreciate it though.”

“Kay. I’m gonna go change, have a seat back there.” He gestures to a spot behind Harry’s back, which has a low bench covered in black leather. “Nick’ll be out to meet you in a tick, yeah?”

“Sure.”

“Gotta get outta this fucking bra, it chafes like a motherfuck. You’ll be fine. Good luck.”

Harry sits down and takes a second to survey his surroundings. Now that he’s inside, it all looks a bit more like a stereotypical dungeon: crimson brocade on the walls, carpet a deep grey, stainless steel receptionist desk and black leather furniture. It puts Harry a little at ease, but his stomach still has butterflies.

He doesn’t have much time to worry, because Nick—he presumes it’s Nick—enters the room holding a clipboard, an attractive muscled brunet flanking his side. “Harry, is it?”

“Yes?” he says in questioning tones.

The beefcake rolls his eyes as Nick stick out a hand to shake. “Nicholas Grimshaw, feel free to call me Grimmy. Welcome to my little house of hor—”

“Whores.”

“Liam, please. I was going to say horrors.”

Harry sticks out a hand to him next. “Liam Pain. Veteran Dom. I’ve been working here nearly five years.”

“I like your stage name, I get it. I like puns.”

“No, that’s—it’s actually my last name. Payne with a Y and an E.”

“Oh, my bad.”

“No worries, I’m shit at spelling too,” Liam offers with a shrug.

“My mum always told me I should be a hairstylist because my name is Harry Styles, get it? It actually became a family joke after a time—”

Liam turns to Nick, practically affronted. “You sure you even wanna bring this one back, boss? I mean…”

Harry cocks an eyebrow. “Excuse me, Liam. I was speaking.”

Nick chuckles. “I’m sure. This way.”

They lead him down a dimly-lit corridor, the walls littered with intense close-ups of black and white genitalia, which Harry is sure are meant to be artistic rather than amusing. He holds back a laugh. They stop by a door between a sculpted arse and one pert nipple.

“I like the vibe,” Harry says, just to make conversation.

“Thanks, mate. We try to keep it classy here. Actually, Zayn took that photo there on the right. He’s an art student,” Nick explains.

“That’s me bum there. See the resemblance?” Liam asks, turning slightly so Harry gets a good shot of his arse.

“Yeah, mate, looks good,” Harry replies, trying not to sound too enthused. Is workplace sexual harassment a thing if you work in a dungeon? He will need to read the employee handbook to find out for sure.

The room in question is fairly empty, except for a chaise, a few wingbacks, and what Harry believes is a medieval torture device. He stares at it, slack-jawed, for just a beat too long, which catches Liam’s attention.

“St. Andrew’s cross,” Liam offers.

“No I know I just hadn’t seen such a nice one before,” Harry replies, just a little too quickly. “They’re not exactly cheap, are they? Take up a lot of space and all,” he adds lamely.

“Sure,” Liam replies with a nod, sitting on the chaise. 

Nick settles himself into one of the chairs, looking at Harry imperiously. “So tell us about yourself.”

“Well I’m from Cheshire. Moved to London for uni, studying law and international affairs. I’m gay and single and during my second year I was voted most likely to get caught up in a political scandal due to an ill-timed backseat blowjob.”

“All right then,” Nick says, pursing his lips.

Next they ask about his experience, which he exaggerates heartily, using his charm, dimples, and dick-sucking lips to his advantage. He’s fairly sure Liam sees right through it, but somehow Nick still seems intrigued. Liam tells him what a typical work week is like before Nick tells him they need to take a few photos of him.

They start with a headshot and then ask that he take his shirt off. “Not that it’ll take much, kid, it’s barely buttoned anyway!”

Harry shucks it off easily, trying to tighten his pecs without them noticing. Liam chuckles anyhow. “Rookie,” he mutters.

“I can fucking hear you,” Harry says, squaring his shoulders and hardening his spine.

Liam merely smirks.

“How naked are you willing to get?”

“Will anyone touch me?” Harry responds, browns narrowed.

“No.”

“All the way, I guess. No stranger to the full-frontal. Got nothing to be ashamed of,” he adds, knowing he’s, well, hot.

“All right then,” Liam says with a shrug.

“All right then?” Harry asks, incredulous.

“Do it, down to boxers, yeah? For posterity or sommat.”

“Not sure you know what that word means,” Harry says slowly.

“Fuck off, I’m in uni too.”

“Posterity means for future generations—” he beings, only to be cut off.

“Shut it and strip,” Liam replies sharply, sending a thrill through Harry’s core.

Harry does so, undoing his buttons leisurely, biting his bottom lip and staring at Liam the whole time. The skinny jeans are a different matter, being as skin-tight as Harry can manage. He tries not to struggle with them, but attempts to make it sexy. He fails, as he realizes he is still wearing his boots. He sits down hard to try to remove them, only to watch breathlessly as it flies across the room to hit Nick square in the cock.

“Fuck this, I’m leaving,” Liam says, throwing his hands up. “This is above my pay grade.” He leaves and exits the room in a huff.

Nick catches his breath for a moment. “Now mate I’m only gonna say this because you’re cute. I’m not sure this line of work is for you, but I’m going to send in a client to see how you do. Your arse is on the line, yeah?”

“Got it.”

“Now put your clothes back on, you fucking slag. I don’t have time for an indecency lawsuit.”

“Actually, in terms of legality, I would be covered under—”

“Shut it and get dressed.”

Harry bites his lip gently. “Yes, sir.”

“Attaboy. I’ll send the client in in ten minutes. You’d better be ready.”

 

This gives Harry ten full, silent minutes to contemplate his current life choices: from the boots to the earring to just why he came to this fucking interview in the first place. Suddenly, calling his mum to ask for more money seemed like a less humiliating option.

He gets up to leave just as the door opens, and _fuck._

In saunters someone who—well, if Zayn was pretty, this man was fucking _incandescent._ He has sandy brown hair teased into a quiff, faded jeans that hugs his and his damn arse, topped off with a slinky white t-shirt that reveals just a hint of chest hair. Harry is smitten and half-hard by the time he walks four feet into the room.

“Hiiiii,” Harry drawls in an uncomfortably high-pitched voice, as if his balls hasn’t yet dropped. His voice fucking _cracks_ at the end in a way it hasn’t since puberty.

“Hi,” the man replies shortly. “Louis.”

“Nice to meet you. I’m Harry. What can I do you f—I mean, what can I do for you?” He throws his hands into the air in what he pretends is an effortless manner but which is actually indescribably awkward.

“Right, so. I like spanking and light bondage, yeah?”

“Right.” Harry’s eyes stray downwards to Louis’ arse, which is perfection on earth. “Good.”

“Where do you want me, Sir?” Louis asks in an amused but tight voice.

 _Anywhere you’ll let me have you,_ Harry thinks for a moment but spits out, “Hands and knees on the chaise.”

Louis obeys, still fully-clothed. Harry moves to the wall beside the St. Andrews Cross, examining the instruments hanging there. He lifts off two, a paddle and something that looks like a wooden kitchen spoon. “Choose,” he commands, hefting them forward into the air.

“Uh, paddle,” Louis says, brow raised, looking over his shoulder expectantly.

“Good boy.” Harry returns the spoon to its hook and looks at Louis’ upturned arse. “Spanking, eh?”

“Yep.”

“Undo your jeans, yeah? Pull ‘em down your knees. Pants too.” Louis complies quickly, too quickly for Harry’s taste. His behind was even more glorious without clothes, so much so that Harry gulped quietly.

There is a pause until Louis says, “Ain’t gonna spank itself, sir,” in a quiet voice.

“Right.” Harry hefts the paddle in his right hand, feigning authoritativeness and confidence. “What’s your safe word, love?”

“Red.”

“And green is all-good?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Such a pretty arse you have,” Harry says first, admiring it distantly. Louis’ skin is golden and smooth, the curve in his back sending Harry into fits.

“Thank you, sir.”

“You’re welcome.” Harry rubs one side of the paddle against Louis’ arse cheek, perhaps a bit too gently, because Louis does not react.

“Do you want me to count how many strikes, Sir?” Louis asks plaintively, trying to look over his shoulder from his kneeling spot on the chaise.

“Yes. Good boy.”

Harry hefts the paddle experimentally, looking at it. He taps Louis with one side of it, not producing any sound whatsoever.

“Thank you, Sir. A bit harder, please.”

“Okay.” Harry swallows thickly and tries again. With more force, he smacks Louis’ arse and produces a small noise, which sends him into a panic. Then he actually _whimpers._ “Oh my god, I’m so sorry, I can’t do this. You can probably get your money back, I don’t even know what I’m doing here, one of the kinkiest things I’ve ever done is let my ex use his tie as a blindfold, oh my god. I am so sorry. Louis, I am so sorry.”

Louis laughs loudly, throwing his head back as he does so. “Oh, god. You are so green.”

“What?”

“Babe, I work here. This is like, trial. It’s fine. But also, you’re the world’s worst Dom.”

That’s when Harry starts crying. “I’m so sorry!” He records this moment, mentally, as the moment he’s lost the last shred of his dignity.

“Um.” Louis pulls up his pants and jeans before rounding on Harry, who is still crying. “Oh, babe, no. We’re not all built to be Doms.”

“My mum is just so worried about me dying in the street and I can’t pay my rent and I just need a job, and I just, London is just so hard sometimes, and it’s just, I needed something to work, and this doesn’t work at all, it just doesn’t! I’m terrible!”

“You are terrible,” Louis agrees. “But you’re cute,” he adds, buckling his belt.

“Oh? You, you think I’m cute?” Harry asks, crying even harder, hiccupping awkwardly.

“Can I try something?” Louis asks next, voice light and kind.

“Sure,” Harry sniffles.

“Good boy.” Louis moves forward slowly, waiting until he can make eye contact with Harry before touching him. Then he cups one hand along Harry’s cheek, thumbing away a tear. “Better.”

“Thank you, Sir.”

Louis bites his lip over a grin. “Come here, kid.” He drags Harry forward by his jaw and kisses him soundly, lips firm and slightly parted. They sigh into one another, Harry finally relaxing and closing his eyes. Without warning, Louis sticks his tongue into Harry’s mouth, eliciting a moan from the back of Harry’s throat.

They separate slowly, both with hooded gazes. Harry tries to catch his breath as Louis eyes him with a small smile. “I’ll try to see what I can do,” he says slowly, shifting from foot to foot.

“Thank you, Sir.”

“Pretty boy,” Louis adds, giving him a wink before leaving the room.

Harry tries to catch his breath for many minutes, at one point leaning against the St. Andrews Cross so bodily that it tips against the wall and nearly falls over. He fixes it quickly and tries to appear nonchalant, moving to the chaise to lie on his side with one hand on his hip.

The door opens seven minutes later (Harry’s counted) and Nick enters.

Without preamble, Nick sits on the chaise by Harry’s head. “Oh, sweetie. You’re such a darling.”

“So this is a no then?”

“Not exactly,” Nick concedes slowly.

“What,” Harry deadpans, scrabbling to his knees on the chaise.

“Well, like, you’re kind of a shit Dom. Sorry, love. But. Hey, you’re pretty? And we need a new receptionist, because having our staff fill in is shit, and I hate it, and they hate it, and it’s—okay, not the point. Would you like that job?”

“Yes please. Yes sir. Anything. Literally anything.”

“You’d make a good sub,” Nick offers, one brow raised.

“Okay, maybe not anything.”

“Good thing you’re pretty, then,” he adds, lips in a pursed smiled.

“Thank you, sir.”

“You might consider subbing here, Haz, given time.”

“Um.”

Nick smiles. “Keep it in your mind, yeah? No rush.”

“Kay.”

“I have your contact info. I’ll send the contract via email and you can start on the receptionist desk Monday, yeah?”

“Thanks.”

“Course.”

Harry trails his way out of the building, mind reeling and full of clouds and floggers. He spots Louis as soon as he’s outside on the pavement, Louis smoking a roll-up and peering at his phone.

“Hey, mate,” Louis says without looking up. “You got the job?”

“Yeah.”

“Knew it. Too cute not to man the desk.”

“Um.”

“Might consider gratitude, considering it was a compliment.”

“Thanks.”

“No problem. So,” Louis adds, finally glancing up, “you gonna give me your number or am I gonna have to glean it from the files?”

“What?”

“C’mon, kid.”

“Oh,” Harry says, cheeks pinking up. “Um.”

“Holy shit, just hand it here,” Louis responds, holding out one hand. Harry gives him the mobile nonverbally, cheeks flushing. Louis thumbs his number into it, small smile teasing at his lips. Then he grins, looking up. “Someone named Nini wants to know if you’re fish food or not.”

“Oh, that’s my flatmate. He thought I was trying desperately to be a hooker and got a little concerned,” Harry explains.

Louis laughs brightly, throwing his head back. “What’s your official position then, mate?”

“Doggy,” Harry snaps immediately eyes bright.

“Um, thanks, love. That’s nice and all, but what’s your job title?”

“Receptionist and liaison.”

“Well. I may have to spend a bit more time out front then.”

“I wish you would,” Harry promises, biting his bottom lip, making a vulnerable noise.

Louis drops his cigarette and stomps it before giving Harry a grin. “No promises, baby.”

And that’s how Harry finally finds a job and begins to make a disposable income, not with a bang but with a whimper.

**Author's Note:**

> So, like. We're both drunk and not feeling like editing, and we wrote this in an hour, and it's just--shut up and love us. Because we love you.
> 
> musiclily88's tumblr: musiclily
> 
> sweet_disposition's tumblr: littlemisscraic


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